He was the father of one of my daughter's classmates. We received the news in an email from school on Monday evening.
I was the one who told my daughter, because my husband was out of town. At first she couldn't believe it, because she had just seen the man that morning when he dropped his daughter off at school. And then she did believe it, and she cried and cried for her friend who had lost her dad.
It's what parents do for their kids. We promise them that nothing like this will ever happen to our family. We know it's a lie. We know that we can't protect our daughter for her whole life, but we're playing the odds. We know that probably nothing terrible will happen to her during her childhood. And we hope that by the time she experiences her first huge tragedy she'll be old enough to deal with it.
Our daughter still believes in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny - no questions on those topics that day. But she kept asking where her daddy was, even though she knew the answer. He was on the road, driving home from a conference, a five-hour trip. She wanted me to assure her that he was OK, that he was going to be home shortly, and that he wouldn't have an accident. But she didn't believe me when I did. She insisted on calling his cellphone, and when he didn't pick up, she started to cry.
She no longer believes that nothing could possibly happen to her parents, that we will always be here, keeping her safe, and her world unshaken. Because now she knows that when we make promises like that, we're lying.
In the past, when she was afraid of ghosts in the shadows, or monsters under her bed, we told her that we would protect her. Her mommy and daddy would keep scary, bad things from hurting her. When she wanted promises that we would take care of her, that we would always be here, we gave them to her. And she believed us, and was reassured.
I'm not saying that we believed what we were saying. Of course we know that bad things can happen. We know that everybody suffers tragedies in their lives. We've already lived through a few of our own in the past. But maybe a part of us wants to believe it too, that nothing will happen to our family, that we have the power to protect our little girl, and to keep her safe. Maybe we want to hold on to that fantasy in the face of all evidence, just as tightly as she's still holding onto Santa Claus.
When my husband got home, my daughter threw herself at him. She wrapped herself around his legs and wouldn't let go. He sat down on the couch, and pulled her onto his lap and held her for a long time. They watched some TV. They talked about their day. And she clutched him, so tightly, until she was convinced that he was really there, and that he was OK. And after a long while, she was OK too.
We're grieving for Jim. He was a good man, and now he's gone, without warning and way too soon. We're grieving for his wife and daughter who loved him so, and now have to make a life without him. But there's something else, too. We're grieving our lost innocence. This happened to one of our own. It isn't our family this time, but it could have been, because for one of us, it is.
And now, at least for a while, we can't pretend otherwise.
